April 22, 1956,
Dear Diary,
This morning felt like a gift. The sky was all golden and pink when I opened the curtain, and I could smell the wet grass through the window. It was already nearly 60 degrees when Robert, our good neighbor, pulled up at the mailbox in his pickup. Mini scrambled into my lap before I could even get the door shut—she was all wiggles and excitement to be going to Holy Mass. My tummy, which had given me so much trouble yesterday, felt completely better, and I was glad for that. Sister Mary Claire had her meditation book tucked under her arm, and her smile said it all. She said, “It’s really Easter now, Kathy,” and I knew just what she meant. There was something in the air—like everything had softened and brightened all at once.
We got to church early enough to read from the meditation before Mass. Today it was about the Beauty of the Body of the Risen Saviour. I tried to picture Jesus as the meditation described Him—His body radiant with heavenly glory, His wounds shining like suns. Sister said St. Teresa saw only a hand of the Lord in a vision and never wanted to look at anything else in the world again. I understand that feeling. When I think of Jesus risen, so full of beauty and peace, it makes me want to love Him more, and to never be distracted by things that don’t matter.
Father LeRoy’s homily brought the whole meditation into real life. He said the body of Jesus, even in glory, still carries the marks of His love for us—proof that suffering, when done in love, can become something radiant. After Mass, the ride home was quiet at first, then full of talk. Sister said springtime makes her think of Easter more than any other season—everything waking up, blooming, becoming what it was always meant to be. Robert said that’s why he likes the mornings best, when the mist rises and everything is clean. I looked out the window and nodded. It all fit together—glory, beauty, and the quiet hope of things to come.
Mini stayed close to my feet all afternoon, just happy to nap near the sunlight. Sister made tea and we talked a little more about heaven. She said the wounds of Jesus in heaven are not sad at all—but full of light. I think I’ll try to remember that when something hurts. Maybe it’s on its way to becoming something beautiful.
Dear Jesus,
You are so beautiful in Your risen glory. Let me never forget that the light of heaven shines even through wounds. Thank You for today—for my health, for spring, for Sister, for Robert, and for Mini. Help me to love You more each day, and to keep my heart turned toward the brightness of Easter. Amen.
This morning felt like a gift. The sky was all golden and pink when I opened the curtain, and I could smell the wet grass through the window. It was already nearly 60 degrees when Robert, our good neighbor, pulled up at the mailbox in his pickup. Mini scrambled into my lap before I could even get the door shut—she was all wiggles and excitement to be going to Holy Mass. My tummy, which had given me so much trouble yesterday, felt completely better, and I was glad for that. Sister Mary Claire had her meditation book tucked under her arm, and her smile said it all. She said, “It’s really Easter now, Kathy,” and I knew just what she meant. There was something in the air—like everything had softened and brightened all at once.
We got to church early enough to read from the meditation before Mass. Today it was about the Beauty of the Body of the Risen Saviour. I tried to picture Jesus as the meditation described Him—His body radiant with heavenly glory, His wounds shining like suns. Sister said St. Teresa saw only a hand of the Lord in a vision and never wanted to look at anything else in the world again. I understand that feeling. When I think of Jesus risen, so full of beauty and peace, it makes me want to love Him more, and to never be distracted by things that don’t matter.
Father LeRoy’s homily brought the whole meditation into real life. He said the body of Jesus, even in glory, still carries the marks of His love for us—proof that suffering, when done in love, can become something radiant. After Mass, the ride home was quiet at first, then full of talk. Sister said springtime makes her think of Easter more than any other season—everything waking up, blooming, becoming what it was always meant to be. Robert said that’s why he likes the mornings best, when the mist rises and everything is clean. I looked out the window and nodded. It all fit together—glory, beauty, and the quiet hope of things to come.
Mini stayed close to my feet all afternoon, just happy to nap near the sunlight. Sister made tea and we talked a little more about heaven. She said the wounds of Jesus in heaven are not sad at all—but full of light. I think I’ll try to remember that when something hurts. Maybe it’s on its way to becoming something beautiful.
Dear Jesus,
You are so beautiful in Your risen glory. Let me never forget that the light of heaven shines even through wounds. Thank You for today—for my health, for spring, for Sister, for Robert, and for Mini. Help me to love You more each day, and to keep my heart turned toward the brightness of Easter. Amen.
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